Standingthere a Vietnam Vet, on the curbside at a red traffic light, had begged therefor some time. He was black, amechanic, mid-fifty, and we believed he could get off the streets. He was shamed of standing there. But this was work.His work was the way he kept his ashy body,kept his dusty cardboard sign, and eyed at each passerby, as he asked and they consideredanswers to his prayers.A weekago, holding enough coins for a tall cup of coffee, he went through the doorsof a Veterans Clinic and a receptionist greeted him. Uncle Bobby said to the black woman, “Miss, you know you allare the only ones who can help me. You know that you know that too, but what you think can be done now, nowthat you say I got this thing, this Agent Orange. Damn. I’ve beenon that glass dick to stop the pain! Can you hear me” An angerthat he had carried out in his words— hit him hard, heavy. And he looked down at the checkered tiledfloor as he said, “I’m sorry. Ijust can’t get away.”